


Red Dead Requests

by Bounteous



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Kinks, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-19 03:46:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17593982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bounteous/pseuds/Bounteous
Summary: A collective place to store all of my Tumblr Red Dead requests together. Find me @astrolo-galaxy.Expect inconsistent updates.





	1. Significance & Significant Others

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by: Anonymous  
> Hi! im officially obsessed w your writings for rdr and i’d like to request an arthur x reader oneshot about how he starts to notice how much he’s rubbed off on her. she’s basically the female version of himself - even down to the self-degradation. she’s relentless on herself and arthur reassures her, which leads to her doing the same for him and a whole buncha fluff!! idk i miss my cowboah and angst is the last thing my poor heart needs
> 
> Summary: Five times Arthur Morgan notices you and one time he does something about it.

 

The first thing Arthur notices is the way you treat your horse. A beautiful, silver Arabian you’d broken a while back with a coat that seems to shine a brilliant, soft pink in the resplendent light of dawn or dusk. A proud thing she is, it took you all morning to even calm her enough to pet her and then all afternoon to claim her as legally tamed. 

_ Horses can be broken but they can never be tamed _ , you’d said to him once. A thing he’d never really thought about before but one he dearly appreciates now. You believed taking these magnificent creatures from their homes and forcing them to work was wrong. Horses are loyal beasts, and you would never betray such an attribute. You trusted your Rose and she trusted you, and it’s one of the most unbreakable bonds Arthur’s ever had the great fortune to witness. 

But when you reappeared in camp atop a new, unruly filly and looking pleased as can be, though not without a few bumps and scrapes, an old, forgotten feeling tugged at his heartstrings. 

Much like The Count, Rose accepts no rider that’s not you; for the first few weeks, she wouldn’t even let anyone else near to groom and feed her. Although still as prideful as ever, she’s begrudgingly learned help and friendship can still mean independence—if, at times, a bit self-righteous the way Sean can be.

You took it all in stride; never quick to anger when she’d snort and turn her head at a command, never frustrated when she’d nip at your hand as you’d try to brush her, never once did you aggravatedly give up whenever she’d buck you off her back into a muddled heap on the ground. No, through sheer determination and a natural, loving embrace did your Rose finally allow you to bond with her. Arthur watched on like an avid spectator, amazed and marveling and a few other emotions he doesn’t quite believe he can still feel. 

It reminds him of the way he spoils Boadicea for a bit of self-indulgence and slight, familial influence. 

He watches you from across camp, brushing Rose’s sparkling coat and stroking her deep, black mane. It’s not an unfamiliar sight or realistically extraordinary in any way, but he supposes that’s precisely why he can’t look away. Despite a swirling nervousness in his stomach and the girlish whisperings of Mary-Beth and Tilly he knows, for a fact, concern him and his doings, he walks a steady path towards your figure. 

“There she is,” he greets amicably, albeit a little too enthusiastically and he mentally kicks himself in the ass for it. 

A slight jolt of your shoulders as him mentally kicking himself again, though you turn around with a broad, artfully authentic smile all the same. “Oh! Hello, Arthur. Giving me quite the fright to wake me up, are you?”

A sheepish smile and a hand to the back of his warming neck. “Ah, I’m sorry. Didn’ mean to.”

“No, no, it’s quite alright. I’m only joking with you,” you reassure, placing a delicate hand to his elbow for emphasis. The smile on your face doesn’t diminish.

He feels an oncoming rush of heat to his face, so he ducks his head, hat perfectly shielding his reddening cheeks from the likes of you. In an effort to seem nonchalant, he even lights a cigarette, hoping the action will distract both him and you from entirely different things. 

“How’s Rose,” he asks, dually defensive and genuine, letting a hand pat her strong neck. The horse in question neighs in response to his touch. Everyone has always wondered why Rose makes her only exception for Arthur, though Mary-Beth and Tilly have suspicions. She is an incredibly intuitive horse after all. 

“Oh, she’s just fine. Proud and pretty and itching to go for a ride.” Her ears twitch at the word. “Would you and Boadicea like to join us?”

Too eagerly, again. “Sure, jus’ lemme go get her saddled. Been lettin’ her get some air for a bit with the others. Can’t imagine it’s too comfortable no matter how hard I try.”

With the tip of your thumb and forefinger, you lift his hat up with such a sweet look, much like those chocolates Jack enjoys far too much, to speak directly to him, “I’m sure she appreciates it. I’ll go meet you over there.”

Tilly and Mary-Beth exchange knowing smiles as the two of you ride out together. A peaceful morning, Rose and Boadicea canter side-by-side along the path as Arthur contents himself to listen to your mindless ramblings about your day so far. He finds it endearing where so many others would find it incessant. However, to his credit, you only seem to do this with him and vice versa as he converses more with you than even with Hosea when they get into an exchange. 

When Rose begins whinnying, agitated most likely by some, unseen snake along the ground, you put a hand just under her ear, scratching purposefully and bending down to whisper assurances.  _ It’s okay, darling, you’re okay, my little, lady, so strong and brave _ —Arthur catches snippets of your soft talk and he loses the fight to keep an affectionate smile from gracing his battle-worn face. Oddly enough, he doesn’t think he would mind so much if you happened to catch him. 

The ride doesn’t so much have a certain destination in mind, so Arthur and you continue to travel along like a river’s current. Meanwhile, he can’t seem to stop thinking about how much he’s pretty sure he loves the way you are with Rose.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The second thing Arthur notices is the way you treat others. Because it’s so much like himself sometimes that he can’t breathe because he truly believes you’re far more deserving of the rewards of being a decent samaritan than his sinful self. He doesn’t understand why, hasn’t tried to understand why he finds himself inclined to help such ordinary strangers with such trivial matters, though he’s settled within his heart and soul that watching you help these poor bastards makes him feel relatively the same way. 

Although you may grumble and groan at having to help the same feller over and over again for the same exact problem, you’d never turn them away. Interestingly enough, Arthur’s found that to be a flaw in his personality yet something to be admired in yours. The difference is baffling, like Arthur’s keen ability to compartmentalize himself from the rest of society. 

Charles is calm where Arthur is simply used to killing, Sean is confident where Arthur’s been living this life for long, John’s determined where Arthur’s just a stubborn pig, Hosea’s intuitive where Arthur’s been called aloof for not paying closer attention to other important matters. You’re altruistic where Arthur supposes he’s only scrambling to repent a lifetime of sin in a futile showdown of merit. How pathetic of him.

Reconnaissance, as Dutch so theatrically puts it, is your’s and his job today. Scoping around town, finding what’s what, distinguishing the bourgeoisie from the proletariats in a place that’s relatively devoid of such a harsh difference. Giving money to the poor is a good place to start, never mind the fact that there’s a tugging of his shirtsleeve and a voice at the back of his mind reminding him of his inherited morality—an epic battle between opposing sides and his mother forever stands undefeated.

“Excuse me, sir, mam?” a kid, aged around Lenny perhaps, unwashed and unkempt and probably not of his own choice, greets, “Have you happened to see a dog around here? A yellow lab too rowdy for her own good?”

He looks hopeful, but it crushes the moment Arthur speaks and he has to hold back a visible flinch at the sight, “No, can’t say that we have. Sorry, son. We’ll make sure to keep an eye out, though.”

Defeated and deflated, he slumps his shoulders. “No, it’s quite alright. I’m sure she’ll turn up eventually. Thank you, both of you.” And he walks away looking a sad sight.

“Let’s go look for that poor kid’s dog,” you suggest, already searching high and low and whistling much the same as Arthur used to do with Copper. He hadn’t considered anything different.

It’s not a hard find, walking around a small town until you hear whimpers coming from underneath the general store and Arthur’s momentarily amazed at how quick you can sprint such short distances.

“Aw, poor thing’s hurt. Think I can crawl in there, but I’m gonna need you to pull me back out.” And you’re already on your stomach, shimmying under the porch through the mud and spiderwebs, calming the injured animal like you would a spooked horse.

Arthur stands there, half concerned for such an innocently faithful pet and half another one of those feelings he no longer believes himself worthy of. Even if the kid hadn’t asked for your help, you would’ve most likely spent all damn day looking for the owner. If he’s being honest with himself, he would have to. But, when you’re around, he likens himself to an audience member watching their favorite performance—you do these things because you love to, and he’d pay an outrageously expensive price to watch you over and over again. 

“Arthur, can you pull me out now?” Your voice, muffled and strained, echoes from under the porch and he does as asked.

Your entire front is covered in dirt; smears dot your face like those Indians with their tribal paint, but you gaze at the lab with doting concern, oblivious to all the other worries you may or may not have. 

“Here,” Arthur speaks, moving to take the fairly large dog from your arms, “lemme hold her.” 

She whimpers in his arms, hurt and scared, and he holds her tighter in responsive comfort, pressing a soothing kiss to her matted fur

“You found her!” The kid comes bounding over, exclaiming his delight and gratitude. “Thank you so much, mister, miss.”

But when he tries to grab the dog, she cowers in Arthur’s arms further, scrambling to get away. “What’s wrong, girl? It’s okay,” he says, trying to stop her jarring movements, lest she hurt herself further. 

The kid doesn’t take the reaction too kindly, and his response has the two of you sharing incredulous looks of disbelief and appallment. “Hey! You stop that right now or I’ll punish you again, you here!”

When he makes another grab, it’s Arthur who turns away this time like the protective dad he once was.

“You shouldn’t treat your dog that way, kid,” you say, anger swirling in the words and lined with an edge sharp enough to cut a clean line through his manners.

He has the gal to look appalled then. “Well, when she acts like that I—”

“Don’t make me waste a bullet on you, boy.” Arthur’s got  _ that  _ look on his face, the one saved for when Strauss has him debt collecting and he has to act as detached as he so often pretends to be. It works, but never well enough. 

It has the kid backing away regardless, and once he’s out of sight he’s out of mind, and your attention is once again directed towards the lab still held in Arthur’s strong arms. “She’s coming with us and I’m naming her Hope.”

He can’t help himself this time when he chuckles audibly, adjusting his grip as you begin your walk towards your horses. “Why hope?”

“She was hoping for a better life and now she’s got it. We keep hoping and maybe we’ll get one too.”

Your answer has him stunned into contemplative silence, equal parts awed and solemn for a multitude of personal reasons he hasn’t quite dealt with yet.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The third thing Arthur notices is your sudden interest in drawing. You’re not very good at it and you’re well aware of that fact, and he admires your apathy towards that particular aspect. But he has a hard time figuring out exactly why you’ve gained such a spontaneous appeal towards an activity otherwise considered rather boring and frustrating. Much like him with fishing, he guesses, though now it’s become disliked because the sitting and the waiting leaves room for too many bad thoughts. 

You’d come up to him one day as he was sat up against a tree sketching Boadicea for the millionth time. He’d noticed your presence, chose not to acknowledge until you spoke, became increasingly paranoid the longer you stood there watching him draw. Not a product of your person, but of Bill and Micah and Uncle mocking him for practicing a ‘woman’s talent’.

“Could you teach me to draw as beautifully as you do?” you finally asked, and Arthur let out a breath of slight relief for past teasings. 

Per usual, he refused the comment, “Ah, can’t hardly call this rough sketch beautiful.”

“Quite the contrary. You’re very talented.” You sat down next to him, shoulders rubbing together and knees tilted towards his side to better gaze at the drawing. 

It was a simple picture of Boadicea grazing on some hay near the hitching posts. The other’s horses were around as well, but he didn’t want to bother with drawing them as well. It’s not as intricate or immaculately detailed as some others he hides within his journal’s pages, but those are of people and places and intimate moments that meant or still mean something to him. One day he might show you.

“Well, thank you, but I’m not so good as all that.” He allowed you to take the journal, strangely trusting you not to flip through his mindless ramblings and emotional distressing confessions. “Though, I s’pose I could teach you a thing or two.”

He feels nice when your eyes flick back to his, gratitude and excitement and a slew other things he hasn’t had the education to identify swirling within. 

The next few days, slow and unproductive anyway, he takes to show you the basics. He’s not a teacher and never learned formally the rules, but, if he has to be honest, he’d think anyone who said there are rules to writing a few lines on paper is stupid. 

You sit inside camp this time, Arthur thankful that Bill and Micah are out on a job and Uncle’s too busy drinking the day away again. He’s settled for allowing you to copy one of his more simple sketches of Hope lounging around, though it’s not going as well as he… hoped. 

Said animal bounds over, looking cleaner and healthier and happier overall, curious to the goings on between the two of you. You laugh, albeit a bit morbidly, scratching her head. “I’m certainly doing you no justice, little lady.” Hope only cocks her head to the side in question, adorably naive. 

A decisive decision, not one bit thought through. “Here, maybe this’ll help.”Arthur grabs your hand, maneuvering his grip so he can pantomime holding the lead you’re holding. The both of you ignore the fluttering of your hearts.

He moves you along, drawing deft lines and shading here and there, intensely ignoring the closeness between you and the smell of your skin. You must have recently bathed in the river. He locks that thought away tighter than those big city bank vaults. 

The outcome is adequate, much like a child’s drawing, but you love it and he loves  ~~ you ~~ it all the same. Tilly and Mary-Beth don’t say a word when they notice your hands are still held together. Neither of you want to move away.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The fourth thing Arthur notices is your sense of honor. You’ve always been a hardworking, kind-hearted girl, but it makes him feel something fierce watching you castigate Micah in front of the entirety of camp for another one of his mass shootouts. Nobody says anything, not even Dutch when Micah pathetically pleads for his favor. If anything, Arthur would bet his life that most everyone would agree this reprimand is long overdue. 

So they marvel and gape and snicker before moving on with their lives, leaving the original three, Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea, to deal with the repercussions. 

“You’ve caught yourself quite the woman, Arthur,” Dutch says, and he sounds proud rather than teasing, but Arthur scoffs all the same.

“She ain’t my woman.”

“Lying to yourself does you no good, my boy,” Hosea speaks up, and this one’s definitely teasing as Dutch laughs heartily at Arthur’s embarrassed grumbling. 

“Micah, I think you and I need to have ourselves a little chat.” And Dutch is leading him away as Hosea pats Arthur’s shoulder much as a father would as he, too, heads out. 

You’re still fuming, a kind of simmering frustration deep inside that’s still far from being satiated. He would know. So that’s precisely why he wordlessly leads you a ways out of camp, away from prying eyes and ears and giving the both of you some faux form of desired privacy.

He understands the need to be alone to gather thoughts and feelings without distraction. He also understands the lonely, terrified desire festering deep within that someone—anyone—would help. Somewhere along the line, you realized that asking for help only led to being ignored, or yelled at, or considered the weakest form of a human being. Like him, you keep those visceral emotions deep inside where, sometimes, even you forget how to control them. 

At first, it reminded him too much of himself, so he avoided the obvious tension like he would anything else. But he realized, through a brief period of introspection and about half of his journal, that he wouldn’t wish the way he felt about himself sometimes on even the heinous of persons.

One day he followed you. And he continued to do so, and weighted silence turned to intense listening of passionate venting turned to a conversation between two friends who understood each other more than either of them could possibly comprehend.

However, he’s mildly surprised and more than a little flustered when, instead of ignoring his lingering presence, you turn around with a sharp twist and red rimmed around your eyes. “Can you-” You struggle with yourself. “Can you hold me?”

His answer is absolute, fringed with fleeting doubts and hesitations. “Of course.”

Sturdy arms wrap around your frame, uncertain and unsure, but they hold tight and true. You curl into him, face turned into his neck and arms encircling his waist, feeling the cotton of his shirt and the coarseness of his stubble. He doesn’t quite know what to say but supposes he shouldn’t have to say anything and you don’t expect him to. You are safe, and the hand cupping the back of your head has you sighing in relief and a selfish bit of something else.  

~ ~ ~

The fifth thing Arthur notices is your disappearances from camp. They’re gradual, barely noticeable, but they grow into a sort of regular occurrence that Arthur, himself, wonders just what in the hell you’re getting up to. You always come back, though, so he doesn’t doubt for a second your loyalty to the gang. 

However, he becomes increasingly worried the more you return looking less and less like your regular disposition. You don’t wear your emotions on your sleeve—like him, you keep them bottled up, tucked away into the farthest recesses of your mind where hopefully you’ll eventually forget about them too. And, like him, for a while there you took on a certain detachment that only proved to look more disturbing than anything else, so you allow yourself mild joy and sadness where it’s needed. 

But, now he can’t ignore that lingering, residual sadness radiating off of your much like Jack’s childish apathy. You reflect constantly, brushing off people’s comments and assuring them you’re fine whenever they ask, but he watches them walk away and your face turn a shade darker than before. He worries, despite everything else vying for his immediate attention. 

Although, he finds himself stuck, immobile, unable to do anything about it because Dutch has him out and about, Strauss has him collecting debts days away from camp, all of his business keeps him as much away from camp as you have been, and when he returns you’re already long gone. It’s a matter of circumstance he can only disagree with in that journal his, and then he continues on his merry way like nothing has ever been wrong. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

The sixth thing Arthur notices is something that is far too familiar to him. A display of something he’s only ever allowed himself to accept. Although, he supposes, in this eye-opening case, he doesn’t do as well of a job concealing it has he’d thought. Because he can feel it—physically, mentally, emotionally like he’s tethered to you in a way no one else could comprehend—coming off of you in those kinds of tidal waves he remembers from his days in San Francisco. 

That’s why he leaves Strauss’s sharking for another day, opting instead for waiting around until you come back. You won’t talk, not right away, and he knows that well enough. He’s prepared himself, mentally check off a list of things to say and things not to say and the exact way he needs to say and not say those things. In all honesty, this is the most thinking he’s had to do about any given situation thus far. It’s not as difficult as many must imagine it is for him.

When you return, hopping down from Rose’s saddle and caring for her before anything else, he feels prepared to confront you right then and there. But there’s too many eyes and ears and not enough privacy. So all he does is greet you as normal, ignoring your slight startle at his presence, asking for you to meet him in his tent later when you had the time. Subtle enough that he hopes you don’t notice his intentions. 

On his way back, he finds Jack playing with Hope, and he quickly asks if he could borrow the mangy, unruly mutt for all of a few seconds, to which Jack, always the advocate for his Uncle Arthur, has absolutely no problem with. 

You meet him, as promised, finding him sitting on the edge of his cot, Hope’s head laid in his lap, staring at that picture of his mother with such an air of profound thought that you have half a mind to leave him be. But, you remember his request and interrupt such a speeding train as reluctantly as you’re able.

“You asked to talk with me?”

“Are you okay?” he asks, first and foremost and such a question that really only requires one of two answers.

You blink owlishly at him. “Yes, of course, why?”

“You don’t seem okay.” He prays, a thing he’d never thought he’d do, that you allow him, of all people, through.

“Whatever do you mean?” A fake smile and a fake huff of some semblance of a laugh. He grimaces.

“I mean you don’t deserve the way you’re feelin’ and the way you’re feelin’ about yourself.” Straight and to the point. At least, as straight and to the point he can be without scaring you off.

Anger now, defensively, just like he’d miraculously predicted. “And how would you know how I’m feeling?”

“I feel the same way.”

The confession has you reeling; puts you into a position of vulnerability and clarification and you just can’t help yourself. You cry, silent, ugly tears that has Arthur pulling you into his arms just like that time you asked, only this time you didn’t. He’s holding you tight like before, whispering as he did to Hope, who wheedles her way in between, leaning her head against your abdomen as if she can sense such an explosion.

“You’re okay, darlin’, you’re okay.”

The kiss to your hairline, lingering, makes the tears fall harder and faster, though his lips stay brushing along your forehead and somehow you believe him when he whispers again, feeling the sensation of his breath puffing against your skin, “We’re okay, darlin’.”


	2. Yielding Inebriation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by: Anonymous  
> do you think you could write something about discovering one of john’s kinks? maybe its the same age difference in your john smut fic and he didnt even know he was into it until reader noticed his reaction? the kink is up to you haha
> 
> Summary: John Marston spends his days drinking, fucking, and being a depressed asshole. Then he meets you, an ordinary prostitute, and nothing really changes.

 

John has come to learn that there is, in fact, a certain point when one can drink so much alcohol that it ceases to have a taste. He nurses his next shot of whiskey as carelessly as the last as the amber liquid sloshes ungracefully from the glass to his mouth. He looks a sad, pathetic mess drinking the day away at 2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, and he’s quite privy to the bartender's continuous glances towards his figure hunched over the bar.

This is his third day in this dusty town, boozing in this dusty saloon, fucking its dusty whores. He thinks he might’ve laid with a man the night before but clearly he was too drunk to remember, and, well, if he did, it was sex all the same and sex only serves one purpose right now: distraction. So does the booze. And the having run away part of it all.

He’s also come to learn that it’s quite difficult to not think about things when that means actively thinking about not thinking about them. That’s where the demon drink comes into play; it muddles his mind and fogs his brain and effectually makes him even dumber than before. Apparently, his inebriated self likes to bark at cats. 

But the overwhelming loneliness is beginning to gnaw away at him; something even the finest scarlet ladies can’t fix. It’s strange, he realizes, when the whole point of packing up his shit in a hasty scramble and riding off into the night was to be  _ alone.  _

He doesn’t like it anymore.

He’s too damn proud to go back just yet. 

“Penny fer yer thoughts?” Your voice holds a heavy drawl, though not unappealing in the way some of the other women’s are.

Of course, John doesn’t seem to mind nor notice in his intoxicated state of mind. “What the hell am I s’posed to do with a penny?”

Ringlets bob with the shaking of your head as you smirk in a knowing manner. “Boy, oh boy, mister. Maybe you should take a breather with the drinkin’ fer a bit.”

“Oh, leave me be! I ain’t nearly drunk enough yet,” he groans, all akin to those veteran sots you encounter on the daily, and he shoves his face into his arms.

Picking a hangnail, you reply as sarcastically nonchalant as you can muster, “Well, I only wanted to see what all the fuss was about…”

He turns his head only slightly, allowing a single, dark eye to peek over his bicep at your puckered face. “What fuss?” he questions, muffled into his shirtsleeve, with confusedly furrowed eyebrows and such a maudlin way about him that you begin to feel real pity.

“All them girls you been with? They says you got this angry way about ya, but you fuck good an’ hard so they don’ mind so much.”

He blinks owlishly at you before suddenly sitting up and guffawing boisterously, breathless and meaningless and like he hadn’t a good laugh in a long while. You’re thoroughly amused, sharing a look with the bartender who stands there monotonously cleaning his glasses, when the pitiful man finds it in himself, between continued bouts of drunk, delirious giggles, to respond, “Funny, since I can’t even ‘member who or how many!”

The confession has him spiraling into laughter once more.

“An’ our boy, Theo, says he certainly don’ mind another round if you don’ mind queer fellers.”

His fit dies down at that, though his next response has you hooting this time. “Theo seems the type to make me pay extra.”

You slam a hand onto the tabletop, a habit when you’re the one being entertained. “Right you are! He don’ get as many callers as us girls do.” You lean in as if about to reveal a secret. “We love ‘im jus’ the same.”

A dazed kind of realization washes over him then as he fiddles with the empty shot glass. “Wait a minute...are you, a whore, askin’ me fer sex?”

That has you rolling again. “Oh darlin’, I wouldn’ t git nearly as much money if I didn’. Tha’s what these looks are for, to entice ya and make it seem like it’s you askin’ instead.”

He seems to consider this for a moment before nodding his head eagerly like those virgin boys you sometimes get. “I still got a room upstairs and half a mind, I think, to remember this one.”

“Lead the way, cowboy.”

When he stands up, he takes your hand and you grab a bottle of bourbon with a wink to the bartender as you two idiots stumble and tumble up the stairs and down the hall.

His room looks as trashed as he and smells as bad he, but they’re looks and smells you’re used to so you ignore them in favor of current happenings. The moment you step foot inside, he shuts the door with an almighty slam and roughly pushes you against it. A hand slips up your thigh, pushing the offending fabric of your dress aside, before two fingers are thrust obtrusively into your slick folds. It pulls a shocked gasp from you, his relentlessness, the curling of his fingers, his thumb stroking your clit.

“You usually do this with whores?” you ask, breathless and winded from such a sudden, overwhelming sensation.

But he pulls his hand away just as you tip over the edge to paradise. “It gets me goin’.” Evocatively, he licks your juices from his fingers as if he’s finishing a rather delicious meal.

Eyeing you down, he takes the bourbon you’d forgotten you were still holding, popping off the cork with ease and downing a generous amount. Seeing his Adam's apple bob with the gulp, the sinful thought of running your tongue along it invades your mind. And a sinner you must be because with his next swallow you slide your tongue along the plains of his throat, eliciting a choked moan from him that you can feel vibrate down to your core.

For repayment for your loss, you slip your own hand into his pants, grasping his member and keeping it steady as you assault his throat with teeth and tongue. He braces himself against the door, groaning deeply, “Move, would ya?”

You comply with slow pumps, feeling the heat and the throbbing, feel him tensing in his muscles, and you release. Instead of shouting like the other men, to your pleasurable surprise his only response a low, lewd moan.

“Ya like that, huh?" you say, devious smile widening as an idea formulates, “Get rid a’ the rest a’ yer clothes, darlin’, and lay on the bad.”

He abides eagerly, and you wonder, watching him fumble with his belt buckle, if he was this submissive sober. Probably not, but he’s not sober right now. You’re also proud for being the first girl to find this treasured piece of gossip and will most definitely be bragging about it later. A hefty drink of the tasteless bourbon he’d dropped onto the dresser and you watch as he situates himself as you’d instructed.

He’s not especially...impressive by any means, longer and narrower than most just like his body, but his face certainly is and that’s what you’d rather spend your time looking at because it’s not often you get such lookers as him. 

“Look at me, darlin’,” you saw, an octave lower for effect, and he complies.

You make a show of undoing the ties of your bosom, slowly loosening the knots why keeping a sharp eye trained on the mystery man. His own stay trained onto your hands, focusing on the motions and the reveal as you pull the ties loose and your breasts spill from the opening. 

“Ah,” you start, noting the way his hand travels down along his stomach to his hard cock, “don’ touch yerself jus’ yet, mister.”

With obedience that must be rewarded, he does so, though you can tell it’s with hard restraint with the way his jaw clenches and his hand, instead, digs into his ribs. Shimmying out of your satin dress, tight in the places it counts most, you step slowly towards him, nipples hardening at the sudden chill. Meticulously careful, you situate yourself atop him, ringlets bobbing about like the frame of a picture as you gaze down him. His Adam’s apple bobs with an awareness of how close he can feel your cunt pulsing with desire. 

“Touch me,” you whisper, bringing his hand up to one of your breasts for added encouragement.

Once your nipple is rolling between his fingers, you grasp onto his cock and sink yourself down onto him, though you stop the intrusion, only halfway down, when his own ministrations stop. He whines, oddly characteristic, though he continues his groping with heightened vigor. Slower this time, you fill yourself with him, feeling the length stretching you perfectly, and moan genuinely. The man grounds out, rasping  _ “Jesus” _ at contact.

Slow and deliberate, you begin rocking against him at a steady pace, grasping onto his wrist as he continues to grope and to mold your breast. John, drunkenly pliant, yielding to your every word and every touch, revels in the feeling. 

Abigail, paid still for couplings even after having Jack, was always so tractable. He never really blamed her, per se, only her vocation of pleasing her customers who couldn’t give a damn about how she felt. John did, and it took her the first few times to comprehend his getting off on getting her off. But drunk him seemed to have an entirely new mind of his own and it was then that she never knew how to please him, only how to be submissively dominant like most of her callers liked. It embarrassed him to have to tell her what to do, making him more vulnerable than if she’d just do it.

These new feelings, this new pleasure was good, but it was somehow reminding him of Abigail and the life he’d run away from, so he wills those thoughts away to focus on the here and now; on you, this woman he’d met only moments ago and who’d somehow discovered his deepest, darkest desires. 

He moans as you speed up, feeling your walls all around him, tight and slick and hot, and he’s just about at the precipice when it’s all suddenly  _ gone _ . His eyes fly open and he shudders at the coolness as you lift off of him.

“Not quite yet, darlin’, I know yer able,” you say with that sweet, sing-song voice of yours.

He hangs off the edge, dangling precariously and gripping tightly with every fiber of his being. It’s difficult, having never really done this except with himself in the quiet hours of the night, unable to  _ really  _ let go lest he wake the whole camp with his actions. Here, he’s eager and ambitious with the knowledge that no one knows his name, only that he apparently fucks  _ ‘good an’ hard’ _ . Fortunately, so do you.

He’s pulled away from his thoughts when your tongue licks a trail up the underside of his length. “Holy  _ fuck… _ ”

He’s only able to keep your intense gaze until you bring your head all the way down and he feels the back of your throat. That has him throwing his head back with such a remarkably intense reaction. Your cheeks hollowed out, your tongue working its way around, your teeth just  _ barely  _ grazing, your hands groping his balls—it’s all so much stimulation. But he prepares himself for what he knows is inevitable. 

With an audible pop and a lingering lick around his tip, you leave him just as gaspingly unsatisfied as last time. And on the verge of  _ begging  _ for more.

Laying down next to him, only two words are spoken, so honestly and so domineering and so erotically a new wave of stamina reverberates through him. “Fuck me.”

It’s the only incentive he needs as he rolls over with excited swiftness, pushing into you deftly and shamelessly and he has to steel himself for a moment to bring himself back to the land of the living. His thrusts are haughty and reckless and rhythmless; he finds himself holding back before your words, “Let go, darlin’.” bring him sweet, long-awaited relief.

His head spins and he groans, releasing inside you like it was his first time all over again, spent and stimulated and  _ good _ . He’s no longer drunk, or as drunk as he was, hyper-aware of all sense and feeling around him. He pulls out, hissing inwardly as such overstimulation, laying next to your panting self on the shabby bed.

“Huh,” you laugh, “fer those two seconds ya lasted, ya do fuck good an’ hard.”

With a half-hearted growl, simultaneously amused and apathetic, “Oh, get outta here. ‘m tired.” An arm falls his eyes for show.

A per usual, you pick yourself back up and put togther, but before leaving with parting words, “Maybe I could please ya again tomorrow night?”

He grumbles out a ‘maybe’, rolling over and under the covers as you shut the door behind you. Now that you’re gone, along with the feelings and the distractions, his mind falls prey to Abigail once again, so he shuts his eyes tightly, hoping his dreams are of other things this time.


	3. Domestic Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by: Anonymous  
> Are you still taking John Marston one shot prompts? Can you write something about John talking dirty to Abigail? His gruff voice is so fucking hot lol
> 
> Summary: John, Abigail, and, really, just as the title says.

   Sometimes, for the first few seconds of waking up, that first conscious breath and that fluttering of his eyelids, he forgets where he is. Confused. Dazed. Wonders why he smells the remnants of a home-cooked meal rather than gun oil, feels soft linen beneath his body rather than a course bedroll, and hears light snoring beside him rather than the goings-on of a camp long deserted.

When he opens his eyes to the ceiling above him, illuminated by sun-streaks through the window, he lays contentedly in nostalgic silence until the lingering memories drift away into wisps of an escaped past. Then John Marston turns his head to the dozing body of his wife.

Her tanned shoulder, freckled with exposure of the oncoming summer, peeks beneath the covers where the rest of her naked body lay. His Abigail, a beautiful piece of art, lies perfectly asleep like all the worries and all the frets had somehow vanquished in the night. Arm tucked underneath the feathered pillow, her face burrows into the mattress as she settles her body’s unconscious adjustments. 

He reaches for the hand resting between them, grasping onto her fingers and bringing them to his lips. She stirs at the feeling of his gentle kisses to her knuckles, her palm, the back of her hand where it’s most gentlemanly. A flittering of dark lashes reveals two blue irises staring back at him, and the beginnings of crow’s feet crinkle at the edges as a loving smile spreads across her face.

“Hello, you,” she breathes, thumb stroking those indelible scars.

Trailing a finger down her arm, down that soft, smooth skin, and back up again. “Darling.”

“Don’t you got work to get started on?”

“Don’t you got a poisonous breakfast to make?”

Such a cheeky comment earns him a rough shove to his bare shoulder but he grabs her wrist to successively pull her atop him.

“John Marst—” but her admonishment is abruptly cut off when familiar lips mold with her own. 

Instinctually, she curls into him; relents to his pursuits and lowers her defenses. There’s no one, nothing, to interrupt up them. Except, maybe Uncle if he finds another thing he’ll inevitably excuse himself from on account of his ‘lumbago’. She steadies herself with hands on his chest, ebony hair cascading around them as if hiding her and her lover from the other world. 

John envelopes her everything—her lips moving in time with his own, her hair tangled within his grasp, her bare breasts pushing against him. It’s a moment of pure, raw intimacy that’s becoming less and less rare as time moves forward for their new lives. He’s taken back to a different memory of the night before…

_ “Abi…”. John’s speech dies halfway through as he opens the bedroom door.  _

_ There, spread upon the bed like some kind of fancy buffet all for him, is Abigail. Utterly naked, one hand groping her breast as the other pleasures herself down below, legs spread wider than necessary, and fully on display for John to gawk at. His mind balks. “What the hell…” _

_ With Uncle out drinking and Jack away at a birthday party for the night, Abigail takes their privacy to full advantage. _

_ “How ‘bout you get them clothes off, cowboy, and come touch me yourself?” she says, staring him down with such lust that it takes him half a second more to register her words. _

_ With the excited enthusiasm he’d had when he was younger, he’s tearing off his shirt and pants and stumbling around like an idiot trying to pull off his boots as Abigail watches on in amusement. He crawls on top of her none too gracefully, bringing her in for an energetic kiss, hungry and bruising and not at all professional.  _

_ Their tongues collide in a melee of love, want, and long-held desire. Their relationship has been a treacherous road full of steep reaches and sheer drops, and, for a while there, Abigail was the only one putting in any effort. John still berates himself for that—his year-long vacation was anything but. They’ve made it, though, and it’s counted so far in their new lives, ironically, in the place where it really all started. _

_ “Just be rough with me, John!” Abigail huffs into his hot kisses, as demanding as she’s ever been. _

_ He chuckles good-naturedly before adhering to her demands, trailing teeth and tongue down her jaw, her neck, chest, and stomach, leaving bites and marks in his wake. When he reaches her mound, slick and pulsing and radiating impassioned heat, he licks his lips with a smirk. “Look at you, all wet and waiting for me.” _

_ He keeps his dark eyes on hers as he pushes two fingers in. Seeing her lids screw shut and mouth fall open has his cock throbbing painfully. The crooking of his fingers has her moaning God’s name in vain. _

_ “God ain’t the one making you feel this good, darling,” he breathes into her thigh, decorating his words with lewd kisses along the stretch marks. “Look at me.” _

_ She does so, watching intently as he licks a long stripe, tongue barely delving between her folds. The sensation is familiar yet always breathtaking, especially when he makes her keep his stare. Feeling his muscle swirling and his digits curling and she’s back to her previous position of a head thrown back in pleasure.  _

_ Her hands grip his unruly hair as she moans and gasps at his ministrations. She’s only really ever felt good with John. Being a whore, her customers weren’t too keen on giving her any mind than what she was doing for them. Then he came along and it was just… different. _

_ When his fingers hit that one spot, she’s coming undone with a clenching of her thighs and his name spilling from her lips. _

_ He licks his fingers clean of her, smiling crazily. “Mm, tasty.” _

_ “Oh shush, you silly man!” And she’s flipping him over with practiced ease. _

_ A hand around him, keeping steady as she guides herself, she sinks onto his length, feeling him stretch her perfectly as they both groan with relief. It’s too easy to get lost in him and him in her, but she bounces herself rhythmically, keeping a rather brisk tempo for want of release and waning impatience.  _

_ John can’t help himself, bucking into her despite her leading the show. “Fuck Abigail, see what you do to me?” _

_ She’s coming undone again; he can feel her tightening around him. So he grabs her waist, plump and pudgy from bearing a child but beautiful to him all the same, ceasing her movements. _

_ “Get on your hands and knees and let me fuck you like you deserve,” he instructs, to which she readily obeys. _

_ He slides easily into her, the new position giving him better access to that spot inside her. Harder, faster, better than before, he’s thrusting into her with a passion that’s never left. Grunting as she shoves her face into the mattress, sticking her ass higher into the air for him, he feels emblazoned. _

_ “You ain’t gonna be able to walk when I’m done with you,” he states proudly through strained breaths. _

_ And, in true Abigail fashion, she’s snarking back her own comment, “You’d just have to carry me everywhere like the royalty I am.” Although, the interruptions of her gasps keep it from sounding too serious, and if he wasn’t so focused on fucking her senseless he’d have laughed. _

_ With a rather powerful pump, she’s grounding out a ‘fuck’ and he knows she’s close again. His hands grip her hips bruisingly, pulling her in time with himself, losing all sense of things as he spills inside with a rather embarrassingly quick spurt that’d have younger him digging himself a grave. Now? Well, he could easily blame his darling wife for doing such things to him. _

_ Despite the overstimulation, he keeps going, not wanting to take without giving, and soon she’s crying out just the way he loves to hear, contracting around him as he stills. _

_ “John Marston, sex with you will never get old,” she huffs into her arms, ass still in the air as he pulls out. _

She draws her lips from him, a teasing frown on her face, “Thinking about last night making you hard again, Mr. Marston?”

His smirk answers for him, and she giggles loudly as he flips them over for another loving round.


End file.
